


Road Poetry

by DeanRH



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, M/M, Motels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 10:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanRH/pseuds/DeanRH
Summary: Dean is struggling with the discovery that his entire life isn't real. Castiel teaches him about the part of it that is.





	Road Poetry

_He left._

Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Impala.

_He isn't supposed to leave._

_He isn't supposed to leave _ **me.**

Dean sighed and stared out into the darkness.

It was supposed to rain, and resolutely refused, the stars bright in the sky. 

_Well, it doesn't matter anyway, does it? None of this was real. All a part of Chuck's game._

_Does that mean - it can't. It - it wasn't real. It was never real. This big, epic love story, the way you feel about -_

Dean's jaw clenched so hard his teeth felt like they were cracking. He shook his head.

_Did I ever really love him? Did he ever really love me? Was this all a song and dance?_

_Am I thinking this because **I'm **thinking it, or because Chuck is making me -_

The writing, such as it was, had gotten _terrible _the last few years.

He was giving himself a headache.

He started the car. He was going to find Cas.

Whether or not his heart was an invented thing, he really needed to find him.

The hurt sure felt real enough to him.

***

Dean checked into a motel, somewhere off the highway far enough from Lebanon that he felt a little like his old self again.

He lay in the threadbare white sheets, reveling in the starched feel of them, and smoothed his hands across the pebbled familiarity of the tan covering blanket, old and worn. A bedside lamp spilled warm light out across the bed and illuminated the plywood walls.

It wasn't beautiful, but it was _home. _More than the bunker had ever been.

And suddenly, Castiel was there. Suddenly, the angel was seated beside him on the bed, his weight a warm comfort by his side.

Castiel's large hands roamed his bare skin, and Dean had nothing to say. He was startled, but somehow unsurprised. 

Every road Dean had ever known was leading to this moment.

"_You, my Adonis of the road,_" Castiel whispered, and Dean felt like he'd gone mad, "_I know you, down to the bones of you, and the poetry they speak to me._"

Now, he murmured his soft song into Dean's shoulder, as his hand dipped below the waistline of Dean's boxers and he took Dean's hard cock in his hand. Dean cried out at the touch, not so much in lust but in _hunger_, as Castiel drew praise from his lips.

"_A roadmap of scars, guiding me to you,_" the angel whispered. "_You see, my Dean Moriarty, we aren't text. We aren't canon, we aren't gospel. We weren't written this way._"

He drew back to favor Dean with a rare smile, a strange light in his blue, blue eyes.

"_We weren't meant to fall in love, you and I._"

Dean tried to interrupt, tried to argue, tried to insist that there was no such thing - but a simple, sweet look from Castiel stopped him, and for the first time, Dean wondered why he'd fought for so long against it.

"_And yet, we did fall in love - all of our own choosing. Countless thousands have written our story for us,_" he continued. "_Millions of words, thousands of paintings, hundreds of songs. The reason I know that we're real is because our story transcends what was written._"

And Dean's back locked, and his breath stuttered - that moment before the storm, at the crest of the wave, reaching -

"_So you ask what's real, and what's holy -_

_Dean, Dean, my beloved -_

_we are,_

_we are,_

**we are.**"

Dean came with a strangled shout, but this time, for the first time, seemed to float suspended there, as if somewhere beyond stars and time. All that was _Castiel _seemed to suffuse his entire being. 

Then, as remarkably as it had begun, it was over. 

Castiel, beside him, leaned over and pressed a strangely chaste kiss to his lips, and vanished.

Dean lay there alone, the come cooling on his stomach, feeling his heart's wild fluttering slow to a regular beat, as his breathing returned to normal.

He reached over and grabbed a shirt out of his duffel, cleaning himself off. Then he fell asleep, exhausted.

***

In the light of the dawn, Dean climbed into the front seat of the Impala, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Somehow, the entire world looked different this morning. 

A world of their own making.

_Team Free Will, _after all.

Sitting on the front seat was a scrap of paper.

He picked it up, settling into the seat.

_When I'm ready, I know where to find you. I always have. I always will. -Carlo Marx_

Dean grinned, and gunned the engine, before peeling out and taking the road toward Lebanon.

Maybe things weren't so bad, after all.


End file.
